


The Thousand and First Night

by CloeLockless



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Asphyxiation, Character Death, Dubious Consent, Insanity, M/M, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-03
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:15:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1554893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloeLockless/pseuds/CloeLockless
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This night was never going to end.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thousand and First Night

**Author's Note:**

> From the prompt: A tale from the _Arabian Nights_.

** The Thousand and First Night **

 

This night was never going to end.

The sky had never looked so vast. If the earth suddenly flipped over there would be no clouds to catch you—nothing but a deep blue void, and stars. But the earth was much too heavy to move.

Harry was walking through the silent battle field, stepping over bodies and holes left by curses. The war was lasting too long; it had turned him into a figure people had seen too much, that they despised more and more, a human shadow who was rejected both by life and the afterlife. Death had become tantalizing ever since Voldemort had understood what Harry was—walking proof of his immortality. Whatever Gryffindor fire he had at seventeen had died out, and if he was still fighting it was more out of habit than noble ideals. Past midnight he would turn twenty. Maybe he already had. He felt like he was centuries old. And all for nothing.

Ginny had died for him; Ron wasn’t dead but had been sitting in silence in a room for months now; many had vanished into thin air, sometimes voluntarily, sometimes not; new fools had joined the Order but he didn’t want to get to know them. From his Hogwarts days, only George and Hermione were left, and they had been captured the previous week; tonight’s slaughter had happened as they were trying to rescue them. Harry had seen them escape—he was almost certain—in the dark he thought he saw his friend’s bushy hair, and when silence had returned he hadn’t found them among the corpses. He didn’t need to worry without evidence.

He had never seen such a beautiful night, though he wasn’t really sure what ‘beautiful’ meant anymore—ironically pure perhaps, he thought, tripping over a shapeless limb and cursing under his breath. Shuddering, he moved on, not knowing where to go or what to do. Maybe he wanted to see for himself how long the night could possibly last, though he didn’t want to be there when morning would come and shed light on the carnage. He wanted this peaceful nightmare to go on forever and then die upon awakening.

A movement disturbed the unnatural calm, making him lose track of his thoughts.

Two bodies were lying at the edge of a hollow in the ground—they all had the same color in the dark. One had its neck clearly snapped backwards and a gash across the chest; the other lay curled up on his side, less damaged. When Harry touched his shoulder, he flinched faintly and moved his arm as if he wanted to get up or find his wand, but the motion was probably just an unconscious reflex.

Harry seized his left wrist and rolled the sleeve up; what he first noticed under the clear starlight wasn’t the Dark Mark, but the very sleeve he had just grabbed. He would have recognised it anywhere.

It was an old school robe, like the one they had at Hogwarts before the Death-Eater Ministry had it changed. The stranger had grown too tall for it now but it still looked in good shape. He must have really cared about Hogwarts more than his survival, as daring to wear such a symbol among the Dark Lord’s army was suicidal.

The absurdity of the thought stirred numb feelings inside him. He smiled wryly. Suddenly he wanted to be a hero—Potter-The-Savior all over again. He wanted to help this person, to talk to him about the past.

He found the Death Eater’s wand and tucked it away, wishing he didn’t have to, and flipped him over on his back. The young man moaned weakly, frowning. His hair and face were covered with dust and blood—probably not his own but Harry could not and did not want to see clearly just yet. As Harry helped him sit up he muttered something.

“What?”

“Why don’t you let me sleep in peace?” the stranger complained, his voice faint.

“Because… I’m getting you out of here.”

“Come on, there’s no hurry…”

“I know, but I like _night_ strolls better.”

Harry struggled to get him onto his feet; he wasn’t fighting Harry, but he wasn’t helping either. He appeared to shake himself awake, weakly clutching Harry's shoulder, bending forward to whisper in Harry’s ear.

“My legs won’t work.”

“… That’s all right, I’ll carry you on my back. Just help me a little, will you?”

The wounded man grumbled but did as Harry asked. Harry managed to get him into position, his arms around Harry’s neck, head dropping on Harry’s shoulder. Harry was relieved to find he wasn’t that heavy. He wasn’t light either, but the weight against his back and these arms around him, clinging to him, were slowly making the feeling of sick emptiness go away.

“Where to?” the man whispered.

“I don’t know.”

“Lovely.”

“Shut up, I’m doing what I can. First, we are getting out of here.”

Harry felt him nod against his neck. Then, a breath licked at his skin, much too close. He shivered as the man seemed to breathe in the scent of his hair, almost like a lover, and then rested his head on Harry’s shoulder with a weary sigh.

“You smell like Hogwarts.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat and he held the stranger’s legs more tightly.

“The castle, the walls, the classrooms… the Quidditch pitch, the locker rooms…”

“That mustn’t smell very good,” Harry couldn’t help but smile.

The man was silent. His fingers snaked under Harry’s collar and he pressed his lips to the exposed skin. Harry swallowed thickly.

“Who were you?” the man asked.

“A Gryffindor.”

“Oh… too bad,” he said, swiping his face with his sleeve and making himself more comfortable on Harry’s back, and Harry felt him smile against his neck. “I’ve had time to forget that those bloody Gryffindors won the game that last year; I wasn’t playing anyway. I was able to do my seventh year then, but it was a nightmare. I left before the NEWTs.”

“You were in sixth year before the war?”

He didn’t answer right away, but then he spoke again, softly. “Pansy died… a year ago. Vincent, Gregory, dead. Daphne’s gone. Blaise? That bastard’s working at the Ministry now…”

The former Slytherin listed name after name, students that Harry knew, those from his year, and then others he didn’t know, then all the Quidditch players…—they were killed by the Order, working for the Ministry, some were free thanks to their blood status or were able to leave the country without trouble, some were labelled “Blood traitors” and had fled, but those were rare…

“What about Malfoy?” Harry asked, almost afraid to know the answer.

“He lost it. He had to kill his father with his own hands… The Dark Lord taught him how to control the Inferi and he’s been doing it ever since—executing the prisoners, spies, hostages, traitors, and so on…”

“But there are fewer Inferi than before.”

“That’s because he keeps them with him at the Manor, the bloody necrophile.”

Harry closed his eyes and shook his head to clear away the images that had crept up in his mind.

They were finally off the battlefield. The grass was even, unburnt, free of curse marks. A forest loomed ahead.

“You know… I was the one in charge of Granger and Weasley…”

Harry didn’t answer.

“I didn’t hurt them.” 

“Thanks.”

“Don’t.”

Spotting a big rock several yards away from the edge of the forest, Harry decided to stop. The rock was just high enough for him to rest the man on and take a short break. He was exhausted, but for some reason he didn’t want to release him. The man let go of his neck, only to circle his waist with his arms.

“I’m not letting you go,” he warned.

“Whatever,” Harry said.

Harry relaxed in the embrace, closing his eyes as a gust of fresh air washed over his face, and he could feel the man breathing against his neck. He was too tired, he hadn’t slept for months—years really. He crumpled in the arms of an enemy he had just helped. He didn’t care. The latter slipped a cold hand under his clothes and kissed his way along Harry’s neck, peppering light kisses under his ear; and Harry let him, eventually even threading their fingers together.

The man’s other hand crept up his chest and the kisses became firmer, still unhurried, a little too slow, feeling too nice. A moan rose in Harry's ears, though it could have come from either of them. Harry took the hand out of his shirt and kissed the warmed palm, almost hungrily.

Neither of them said a word when Harry turned around and claimed the lips that were torturing him—not a second of doubt when the man’s legs tightened around his hips—not a thought, not a glance—only touching and feeling and pleasant warmth; soft burning sensations, pulsing, breathtaking heat.

“Down,” the man gasped.

As Harry tried to help him down, the man playfully clung to him more than was necessary, distracting him.

And then Harry found himself brutally pinned to the ground in a completely calculated fall. His assailant’s nails were in his wrists, but the venom seeped in from the friction of their bodies, paralyzing him. Harry felt trapped; he hadn’t expected such strength, and it was a mistake to let his guard down around a Death-Eater.

The man stopped moving. “Something wrong?”

“I thought you couldn’t walk.”

“Well, look at me, I’m barely on my knees.”

That was true. The man was on all fours over him, his face so close to Harry’s that his hair brushed Harry’s forehead. He was shaking, feverishly, though he seemed to be trying to repress it. Harry waited, his breath catching.

“What are you afraid of? _Dying?_ ”

He hissed that last word.

“Not really,” Harry answered, his heartbeat loud in his ears. “It looks like I trust you.”

The man’s mouth twitched as if he were trying to keep from laughing or crying. He did neither.

“I want to make you die…”

He began to unfasten Harry’s clothes, slowly, and Harry didn’t move.

“How?” he asked, his voice cracking.

The man said nothing. For a moment Harry thought he was fumbling for the pocket where their wands were, but he just ran his lips and fingertips in sensual patterns around Harry’s neck and throat, patterns that were driving Harry crazy as the man gripped his hardening cock with his other hand.

“I’ll strangle you of course.”

His cock ached under the other man’s hand, so much so that Harry didn’t feel the grip tightening around his throat. He opened his eyes as he struggled to breathe, but it was too late, night was everywhere, streaked with star-white smudges.

“I’m insane” were the last words he heard before he succumbed to darkness.

*

A voice floated down to him from a great distance, reaching him as if he was at the bottom of a well. It chided him.

“ _Hey, don’t close your eyes…_ ”

Harry resurfaced with a strangled gasp. The world came back, intense—the rustling trees, the breathing of bats, the prickling of starlight on his skin, the shape of the breeze… He could see everything in the sky, which seemed lower than ever; he could almost touch it. His body was heavy lying atop the damp grass and the creased fabric of his clothes, so heavy he couldn’t move. He felt as if a ghostly version of himself hovered right above his body, breaking the surface of his face. He realised he was completely naked; he could feel his pores opening and closing, responding to magic…

“What are you doing to me?” Harry croaked.

The man leaned over to kiss him before answering.

“There are bruises all over your body. I am healing them… And if you don’t trust me with magic, I’ll kindly remind you that I’ve just knocked you out with my bare thumbs.”

Harry swallowed painfully and choked a little. His head was throbbing; he was going to be sick. He grabbed the man’s wand hand and pulled faintly.

“Do it again.”

*

His eyes filled with tears; his head could burst. The world was upside down; he was going to fall; he was falling. And just before darkness swallowed him, he violently hit the ground, aroused to the point of pain. And then he was falling again, sensing nothing but the night blinding his eyes and his lover toying with him in any way he wanted. He could have died without noticing. Death was making love to him. He was losing it.

He heard a moan and opened his eyes. The man’s slender body arched above him, alight from within, scary and beautiful. His head fell back, lips parted. Harry wanted to touch. He raised a hand.

But his wrist was pinned down instantly and a silver gaze shot right through him. Harry’s eyes widened in belated recognition. The man snorted.

“You won’t close your eyes now, will you?” He brushed the lightning scar fondly.

“Look at me…”

*

Draco loved it. His fingers were sucking out his victim’s life; he could feel it through him, see it draining from the face as if his own eyes were doing it. And he whispered the magic words, the ones that breached the dying one’s mind, and from the breach fled the memories. They flooded his mind all at once—sounds, pictures, tastes, emotions. He let the secrets of the Order rush past and vanish; instead he focused on the last minutes of the Boy-Who-Lived—the desperate want and pleasure Harry had experienced mingled with what he was feeling himself, the shadow of his own hands locked on his throat—something green and ugly snapped with an appalling, shrill sound and his heart imploded. He arched his back as his orgasm burst through his body and up to his lips.

He collapsed on the corpse and nuzzled against it, catching his breath. Once he had breathed in the last vestiges of warmth, he sat up and gazed upon his masterpiece.

Lust, hunger, terror, and his name, his signature, crystallized in these dull green eyes.

He kissed the cooling lips of his last lover and an ecstatic shiver ran up his spine, making him weep. With his palm and the full length of his fingers he stroked the divinely soft skin, planting feverish kisses upon the frozen face. He stood up and looked down again, spinning his wand between his fingers, biting his lip.

The snake was dead. One final piece and his collection would make sense. He would most probably die trying to get it—yes, a very painful death. But he didn’t care anymore. For a thousand nights he had been living with the dead. There was nothing else left to do now that he had killed Harry Potter.

He let Potter’s hands help him with his clothes, imagining the beautiful fury that would stretch across the _Dark Lord’s_ hideous face when he saw what Draco had done. The fury swiftly seeped into his own blood, making him feel sicker than ever.

“Potter,” he hissed. “Carry me.”

 

(please return to [livejournal](http://hp-darkarts.livejournal.com/78689.html) to comment or leave a comment in both places)


End file.
